Bonds
by shoottwice
Summary: Black and White have fought for years. They know each other as well as you can ever come to know someone you've never met outside of battle. They know the rules, and they follow them, dancing around each other in a bloody ballet. So what will Black do when White disappears, and it looks like he may not have left on his own? (Human AU)
1. Sneak Attack

Hate is a strong emotion. Strong emotions form bonds, whether they are positive or negative. If you hate someone hard enough for long enough, you form a bond with them. What do you do when this bond is broken? What do you do when the person you had thought would always be there disappears? Do you let years of pain and struggle pass, and allow them to be taken from you? Or do you follow?

You follow. Because that hate is yours, and no one can stand in its way.

* * *

Christopher Black grinned. Kneeling on the fire escape, he withdrew his gun from his pocket like a medieval knight drawing his sword from its scabbard. But Black was no knight. He was a spy. One of the best. Quite possibly THE best, at least in the public circuit, except for one notable exception. White. Black had never learned his real name, but sometimes pondered the idea that he had gotten his title in much the same way Black himself had. Black had, at first, relied on code-names the same way any intelligent spy would. Then he had slipped up.

He had taken, as a joke around the agency, to introducing himself as 'Black- Christopher Black', because everyone working there at the time had known his name already. Then a representative from an non-rival agency (about as friendly as two spy agencies could get) had asked for his name.

"Black," he had offered, only to suddenly realize that this was not one of his coworkers. The man had shaken his outstretched hand, seeming not to notice his sudden tenseness.

"Nice to meet you, Black," the man had replied. And that was it. Once, a woman had asked him if it was because of his hair and clothes. He had filed it away to use as an excuse if the time came. It might be just stupid enough to work (not that the actual origin had been any less ridiculous). It was true that his raven black hair was something of a distinctive feature. It shone like obsidian in the light, and always looked as if he had just run a hand through it to ruffle it perfectly. Still, he had never had to stoop so low as to actually present that as a viable reason.

It had been only two years after he received his moniker, he recalled, that he had met White for the first time. He had already built himself something of a reputation. He had joined the agency at twenty, one of the youngest spies to ever work there, and by the age of twenty-four, he was well-respected.

It had been a simple assignment. A single bullet would do the trick, and a political candidate's future would vanish. He had already positioned himself on the roof of a building with a good view of the podium. The man droned on in a low, flat voice, and Black was beginning to really look forward to shooting him. He aligned the scope, and curled his finger around the trigger, so intent on his target that he didn't hear the quiet footsteps behind him until it was too late, and the cold barrel of a gun was pressed to his head.

"Ah ah ah," a light, cheerful voice had mocked, "we can't have that, now, can we? Bad for business if the man I've been assigned to protect is killed. You understand, don't you?"

Black had been frozen while the person spoke, but the moment he recovered, he was in motion. The rifle hurtled around the connect with his assailant's side, and Black threw himself past the figure, landing on his feet and spinning in time to catch a glimpse of the man who had surprised him. Said man stood ten feet in front of him, already bringing the gun up to fire. His white trench-coat somehow managed to blend into the landscape, as if it was letting the colors around it bleed into the fabric while it swirled in the breeze. White-framed sunglasses shielded his eyes from view. A joyful laugh bubbled up from his mouth as he fired.

Black was already in the air, having hurled himself to the right a moment before. Heart pounding, he had flown down the stairwell like a human bullet, his metal counterparts rebounding off the walls as the man's delighted laugh rang in his ears.

Perhaps, he pondered, drawing himself out of the memory, White had gotten his name because of his hair. His smirk became a full fledged grin. He knew for a fact that White had actually donned his all-white ensemble after he had become publicly known as such, so hair was actually the next best option. His hair had not drawn Black's attention the first time, on the rooftop, but he had noticed it later. He had once heard White's hair referred to as platinum blond. This was simply untrue.

White's hair was like a blank slate, cleaner than fresh snow, and it glowed like moonlight. While he would never admit it, Black hated it when blood stained White's silky mane. Even when he himself had drawn the blood.

He reached the top of the fire escape, and cut away the pane of glass that separated him from White's current office. He tensed himself, and with a well-placed leap, flew past the curtains and into the room. Gun in hand, he surveyed the room. Something was wrong.

No safe.

No secret plans.

No White.

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**What did you think? Please review, follow, favorite, ect. Next chapter coming soon! Thank you for reading! **


	2. Psyche

He froze, his senses on high alert. This was not good. Not good at all. He spun around, glancing back toward the window. It was a trap. Of course it was. How could he have been so _stupid? _How could he not have suspected something like this.

"Stop playing games!" he shouted, eyes darting nervously from side to side. "Are you just going to wait for me to fall into one of your stupid traps like the coward you are? Come out and fight me!" There was no reply. What was White playing at? Normally, he would have set his trap into action by now. He had never been one for long, drawn out mind games. Had he changed his style?

This made no sense. Over the years, the two of them had fallen into a pattern. Who did White think he was, just going and- and- _changing_ like that? That wasn't allowed! That wasn't how it _worked_!

Black's breath caught in his throat. Oh god. It was true, though, wasn't it? He had fallen into a pattern with White. Their routine was always the same. One of them had to be carrying some sort of plans for their respective agencies, not _indiscreetly_, but not _discreetly_ either. Just obviously enough that the other would notice. They would hole themselves up somewhere with the plans, in their own little office buildings, on agency submarines, sometimes even on off-shore islands. The other would follow, being very cautious, but always alerting the other to their presence somehow.

Thinking back, he realized that he hadn't taken his shoes off before climbing up the fire escape. While the sound of shoes against metal wasn't earsplitting, White could have heard it easily if he had been listening.

As per usual, he had taken the way in that left him with few escape routes, making it easier for White to engage him in a fight he couldn't win. What should have happened next was him encountering either an armed White, who he would grapple with until one of them managed to get a hold of some sort of explosive device and send the other running, or one of White's traps, which would preferably spring as he was climbing through the window.

This wasn't right. This wasn't the way spies did things, wasn't the way _he _did things. You never fell into a routine. He would never have out himself in such a compromising situation on any other assignment.

When had it been that he had started passing up opportunities to go for the kill? When had it been that White had begun to do the same? More importantly... why?

The hand that held his gun dropped to his side. "White!" he called. "Where are you, you bastard? We need to talk!" Again, no answer.

Black shook his head slowly. "Now I know I've gone insane."

* * *

Two hours later, he had searched the whole building over, and there was no sign of White. "Where is he..." Black growled, scanning the room he had started in for what felt like the hundredth time. Why was he even doing this? It didn't make any sense. If White wanted to just up and leave, that was his business, not Black's. But... what if he hadn't? What if he hadn't left? Just because Black was the enemy he spent the most time with didn't mean that he was White's _only_ enemy. What if he had been taken?

"What difference would it make?" Black mumbled to himself. "It's not like I care what happens to him." And yet... White was the closest thing to a friend he had. Maybe... Black had begun to think of him as one. Maybe he did care what happened to the white-haired man.

Black stifled the sudden urge to fall to the ground, curl up into a ball, and wait for everything to be over. He massaged his temples and sighed. He needed to figure all of this out, but right now, he had more important things to think about. Where was White?

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**So... what did you think? Please review, follow, vote, all that. Next chapter coming soon, it will probably be from White's point of view. Thanks for reading chapter 2, I hope you liked it! XD**


	3. La Costumbre De La Soledad

**Thanks so much for reading this far! This chapter will be from White's point of view, and begins a little while before Black shows up at the building. A note on White- his last name, Valkoinen, is Finnish for white (I hope). Yes, he is Finnish, but he left when he was young, so he just occasionally slips in a word or a phrase in his native language. He really shouldn't, since it makes him easier to track down, but he loves it when Black doesn't understand his insults.**

* * *

James Valkoinen stared at the papers in front of him. The precise lines of the diagram cut across the thin blue parchment like the strokes of a knife. He ran his fingers along the red square he knew so well, the ink slightly smudged, the words contained within the box striking and confident.

'CLASSIFIED', it read, the small ridges where the ink had failed to take hold of the stamp as familiar and comfortable as the nooks and crannies of his own mind- perhaps more so, as James made it a point to never peer too deep into his brain's inner workings. It kept the job exciting, as he could never be absolutely certain what we would do next. When instinct took over, though his actions usually made sense later on, he was no longer completely in control.

In fact, just last week he made a decision that had stunned him. He had been fighting with that houkka Black again- really, who else would he have fought?- and had just lined up a kill shot. Right into the left temple, with a clear line of fire. And then he... hadn't. He had just stopped, finger on the trigger, and let Black move away. Why? He had no idea.

Strangely enough, looking back, he realized that he had been doing it for a while. The things his brain did sometimes! Really, though, he supposed it was all for the best. Work would be _so_ boring without someone halfway competent to spar with. If Black died, he would be surrounded by idiots. Not that Black wasn't an idiot.

He remembered the first time they had met- the fool had never seen him coming. The slight gasp he had let out when White had pressed the gun to his head had been absolutely priceless. There was no way he could get away with that now, of course- Black would hear him coming for sure. In fact, the very next time they had encountered each other, Black had almost triumphed.

They had both been assigned to steal exactly the same files, but Black had gotten to them first, and managed to dodge his knives- which had sent him running from Black's bullets. The memory was still quite a bit embarrassing. He had rounded a corner, and found just what he needed- a poncho and a newspaper sitting abandoned on a park bench. He had slipped on the poncho, and unfolded the paper in front of him just in time to hide his face as Black came sprinting down the road.

James chuckled slightly. Honestly, sometimes it was just pitiful how easily Black could be fooled. Those were the good old days- back when they had both been inexperienced enough to fall for that kind of trick.

He looked fondly down at the papers. Now _this_ was a trick that Black would fall for. It had taken him hours, but he had finally found just the right flaw in the design. For once, he would let Black steal the plans, and construct the 'missile launcher'- only for it to blow up in his face the second he tried to fire. Truly, it was a thing of beauty.

Now all he had to do was wait. He leaned back in his chair, turned his radio to a station in Spanish, and began nodding his head in time to 'Diez Mil Maneras'. Every so often, he checked his watch. Black was taking longer than he had expected... he snorted. _Must be taking the 'sneaky' approach,_ he decided. Ah well. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do, he realized with a harsh laugh. The song on the radio quieted slightly.

_Y sé muy bien que aveces puede más_  
_ La costumbre de la soledad_

He quickly changed the station. Suddenly, he heard the scraping of a misplaced footstep from somewhere beyond his door. A grin spread across his face. He busied himself with the plans, hunching over them as if to study them one more time, giving no sign that he had heard the noise. The almost imperceptible change of temperature in the room alerted him to the opening of the door, but before he had time to leave his seat and set his plan in motion with a halfhearted battle, a cloth was held over his nose and mouth, and a pair of strong arms kept his own locked against his torso. The unmistakeable smell of chloroform filled his senses.

_Paska! _James thought as he slipped into unconsciousness. He hadn't been expecting this.

* * *

**Yup. He was kidnapped. Just to clarify, I changed the lyrics to the song on the radio- it should be 'La costumbre _que_ la soledad'. The way I have it, it means: And I know very well that sometimes it can be more, the habit of solitude.  
**


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